Sing Forever
by linesfade
Summary: Sara Pezzini, ever the vigilant protector, watches over a man she hardly knows...even though her heart screams otherwise. Forever and eternally fated...yeah. That sounds about right... It's Sara & Conchobar. Obviously.


**A/N: Yeah, I know. I bet all of you that remember me thought I'd died or fallen off the face of the Earth...but I'm still here. I was looking back through my old reviews and gathered some inspiration for this little one-shot. It may turn into something else, but for now I think I'll call it complete. Let me know if you want more, and I'll try my best! Here's to Spin, DM and GeoGirl! tips her hat **

** Post Season Two. One-shot...or maybe more. You decide. ;)  
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**Summary: Sara Pezzini, ever the vigilant protector, watches over a man she hardly knows...even though her heart screams otherwise. _Forever and eternally fated_...yeah. That sounds about right... It's Sara/Conchobar. Obviously.**

**Disclaimer: Witchblade is not mine. Oh, how I wish it was. Here's hoping the movie will be as good as the series... crosses fingers **

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**Sing Forever**

The rhythmic _beep-beep-beep_ of the crème-colored heart monitor told her that he was still alive, just…_sleeping_.

There was just something about him that it made her want to remain in the rigid plastic chair for hours, just to watch him. Of course, the chair was painful. What hospital chair wasn't in an ICU cubicle? The pain and occasional pins-and-needles sensation in one or both legs reminded her of how quickly one's life could be taken away. She should have known that anyway, it was her _job_ as a homicide detective to see the horrible side of humanity and to catch the bad guy.

As she watched him, her mind screamed at her that she shouldn't be this vigilant. It kept telling her that she didn't know anything of this man, except for the fact that he was one of the million "starving artists" around the country, was Irish, and was put in a coma by her _partner_ at some local version of _Fight Club_. She scoffed at her mind. Her heart knew better. She knew it because, even though she was ashamed to admit it, she dreamt of him. She would dream, only to jolt upright in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, sobbing. Sometimes she couldn't even remember what she had dreamt, but she knew it was _him_.

His arm twitched on the hospital bed ever-so-slightly, and her head jerked up, her eyes fixing on his face. She felt her heart and breathing cease for a fraction of an instant, hoping against hope that _this_ time would be different, that _this_ time he would wake up. She studied his face for several moments before all of her hopes fell back into a shattered heap on the scuffed hardwood floor. Again. Nothing happened. She frowned harder as she stared at the floor.

The hospital should polish that out, shouldn't they?

She longed to hear his voice. No matter what was on her mind, she always turned back to his voice, his smile, his eyes that were the clear blue of a perfect summer sky, and the song he had sung a few bars of before he'd lapsed into this coma. _Her_ song. She wanted, no, _needed_ to hear him finish it. She shook her head. He should have been in a bar somewhere downtown singing forever instead of exchanging blows with others in some underground ball-busting club…

But then again, if he hadn't been involved, they wouldn't have met.

"John…," she began, but trailed off. Her thoughts, every one of them, sounded ridiculous even inside her head. "Come back to me, _please_."

It was so cliché, but what else was she going to say? _"You don't know it, but I come here every day after my shift, praying that you'll wake up. I try to talk to you, but my words fail me every time..."_

Not bloody likely.

"I…," she tried again, "I want you to wake up, damn it! You've been out long enough!"

There was a tremor in her voice as she cried out, throwing all of her pain and misery into those two sentences. She let her head fall into her hands and fought not to let herself fall into some ridiculous fit of depression. Over a man she hardly knew. She rubbed her temples in circles to try to massage away the escalating headache. As she did so, her elbow brushed his arm, and the Witchblade flared to life, flooding her vision with things that seemed entirely too real, but that she knew had never happened: stolen kisses, loving caresses exchanged, and tender moments of him singing her to sleep when she'd had a rough day at work. Those images made her wish that he would wake, and take her in his arms then and there.

Theirs was a dangerous love, neither one really knew the other, but they did _know_ each other. She knew that they were old hearts, old souls, paired together through eternity. She smiled at the thought and took his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb absently over his knuckles that were nearly healed of their scars. His muscles had deteriorated, and his body thinned out, but she still thought him breathtaking. The Witchblade on her wrist swirled in recognition as it took her back to another timeline. A song floated through her mind as she saw him sitting on her coffee table singing to her as she curled up on her couch with a fresh cup of French Vanilla coffee. She fought hard to memorize the lines of the song as she heard it being played…

_"Our tragedy is as old as the night  
Our fable done told a thousand-odd times  
For fate is an unmerciful queen  
Made a quest out of you and a soldier of me_

_"I curse the stars that take you away  
Take you away from my side  
Condemned to burn my chariot wheels  
Chasing the love of my life  
_

_"Oh, Sarah it's the pageant we play  
Forever and eternally fated  
Oh, Sarah, I done followed too far  
I can't let you slip away…"_

"AHEM!" Someone cleared their throat behind her, and she turned annoyed eyes to the offending voice. "Excuse me, Det…Detective Pezzini. Visiting hours have…ended. Five minutes ago."

The source of the voice was a young nurse, no older than twenty-four. She gave a nervous smile and tugged at the front of her flower-print scrub top nervously. She knew that the woman in the chair had a reputation for taking down the biggest and baddest of New York's criminals, and Sara could tell that the girl was taking every precaution not to anger her. Sara gave her a small smile.

"I'll be out in a moment," she replied, and the girl let out a breath in a large _whoosh_ of air before nodding and scurrying from the doorway.

"Am I _that_ scary?" she asked herself aloud as she stared down into the now-gaunt face of the man she had found herself falling for, harder and harder every day.

"Not at all, Lady Sara," a familiar voice came from behind her, and Sara sighed.

"Thank you, Nottingham," she whispered.

"Of course, Lady Sara. May I escort you home?" he inquired, his intense chocolate gaze fixed upon her back. Sara picked up John's hand and laid a feather-light kiss on it before placing it over his heart.

"I'll see you tomorrow, John," she whispered as she rose from the seat and turned to look at Nottingham, her somewhat-silent stalker. "I will let you walk with me, _only_ if you promise _not_ to annoy."

Ian looked at her sideways. "I shall try, Lady Sara. You are always a conundrum, but one does what he can to please you."

She rolled her eyes. "And cut out that 'Lady' crap. How many times have I told you _not_ to call me that?"

Ian ducked his head as he closed the drape behind her. "Apologies, La-…_Detective_ Pezzini, many apologies…."

The drape was closed, and then he was left alone, but not forgotten. No. _Never_ forgotten. For Detective Sara Pezzini, the man that she knew as John Doherty or Conchobar, as her visions told her, he would continue to sing…forever.


End file.
